An Encounter With Evil

What I am about to recount is an experience I had between weeks 2 and 3. I encountered something hostile inside Veilwood. I didn't really get much information from the presence, but I still feel like in the interest of completely documenting my stay inside the sanitorium that I should record what happened. To say the experience rattled me would be an understatement.

I was walking to my room for the evening and had been strolling the halls for maybe ten minutes when something decided it didn’t like me. I felt a spectral hand touch me, nudge me forward. I stopped and looked around, seeing nothing. Yet, I knew I wasn't alone.

The hallway smelled like mildew and old metal, like the walls themselves were rusting from the inside out. My boots echoed down the corridor as I swept my flashlight across peeling paint and rows of empty beds. I kept my voice steady for the camera.

“Elijah Nicholas, Veilwood Sanitorium, 11:47 p.m. If anyone is here, I’m not here to harm you. You have my attention. I felt you touch me. Is there something you want to say? Let's talk.”

That’s when I heard it.

A scrape.

Not a footstep. Not fabric brushing a wall. Not even a ghostly voice.

Something sharper. Like claws on metal.

I turned too fast, light shaking in my hand. The hallway behind me was empty — just a wheelchair sitting crooked near the far wall. I waited, listening to my own breathing.

Then I felt my forearm burn like it had been doused with gasoline and lit with a match.

I sucked in a breath and rolled up my sleeve. Three thin red lines were rising on my skin, like they were being drawn from the inside out.

“No,” I muttered. “You don’t get to touch me.”

The air turned cold enough that I could see my breath. The wheelchair at the end of the hall creaked and rotated slowly toward me, its wheels whining like they hadn’t moved in years.

Scrape.

Scrape.

Scrape.

Closer this time.

I backed toward the nurses’ station, camera rolling. “If you’re here, tell me your name.”

The fluorescent fixture above me rattled. I caught movement in the cracked mirror behind the counter — a shape just over my shoulder.

I froze.

In the reflection, something stood inches behind me.

It was tall and wrong in a way that made my stomach flip. Its arms hung too long. Its fingers ended in jagged, black points. Its head tilted like its neck had snapped and never healed right. Its mouth was stretched open — not screaming, just waiting.

I spun around.

Nothing.

Pain exploded across my back.

I dropped to one knee, the breath punched out of me. I felt fabric tear. Something sharp dragged across my shoulder blades, slow and deliberate this time, like it wanted me to understand exactly what it was doing.

“Stop!” My voice cracked. “I’m not here to hurt you!”

A whisper brushed my ear: "You’re just like all the others."

The words felt damp and cold, like breath against skin. I felt pressure behind me — something leaning in, hovering close enough that I could feel the weight of it without seeing it.

Claws traced down my spine. Not cutting. Just testing.

I scrambled forward, knocking my recorder off the desk. The wheelchair at the end of the hallway began rolling toward me on its own, slow and steady, wheels squealing with every rotation.

In the mirror, the figure was there again.

Closer.

Its claws were lifting.

I ran.

Every step down that corridor felt like running through water. Scratches raked across my arms and shoulders as if invisible hands were swiping at me from both sides. My camera caught flashes of pale movement in the corners — a limb where there shouldn’t be one, fingers grazing the wall beside me.

Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

I slammed through the exit doors and into the freezing night air, not stopping until I threw myself into my car and locked the doors.

For a few seconds, there was silence.

Just my breathing.

Then I looked down at my jacket. It was shredded across the back. Blood was starting to soak through my shirt. The scratches weren't deep, but there weren't plenty of them.

Something screeched against the glass...and then was gone. The crucifix on the chain dangling from my rearview mirror swayed uncertainly.

I was still alive and the presence, whatever it was, was gone for now.